


Semblance

by guanoo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack like a line, Crossover Pairings, Culture Shock, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:45:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9387782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guanoo/pseuds/guanoo
Summary: Jensen cracks a big, genuine smile, sets the flowers down carelessly, and makes to sit by him, before halting in his tracks, eyes wide.“You hit your head kinda hard, dude. You just, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck nervously. “You just called meDean.”Jared blinks. “YouareDean.” Suddenly, that fact is as monumentally obvious as sunset in the evening.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All characters portrayed in this story are fictitious. The Jared Padalecki in this story is a spinoff of the character in the show by the same name. He is not intended to represent the actor, about whom I know nothing.
> 
> I'm re-posting this fic [[read why](https://guanoo-temporary.tumblr.com/post/156047696285/more-so-i-took-a-couple-screenshots-of-my)]  
> Wish me luck, I guess.  
> Love from faggit eeyore

Dean's ... doing witchcraft.

He'd rather be doing pretty much anything else. And yet here he is.

Since dogs started disappearing in Sheridan, Illinois, Dean's been all for icing this murderous witchbitch, but Sam says they don't kill people. And Sam's a royal pain in his ass, as per usual.

"Dude, she slaughters _puppies_. What did the puppies ever do to her?!"

Actually, they're mostly old dogs she's killing, but it's all in the eyes. At the pound, a thousand forlorn eyes followed Dean around. He kept his movements brusque and avoided the puppy eyes, because they'll break you, every time. He knows this from personal experience.

Fucking witch is going _down_.

Dean mentioned, in passing, that they're still hauling a flamethrower around, and Sam shot him a withering look. So, with a heavy sigh, Dean called Bobby Singer, who swore up and down that this particular spell is the only way to drain a dangerous witch's power without killing her.

Dean also checked to make sure that they didn't have to sacrifice any small animals.

He happily gives a bit of his own blood to power the spell. Not that it makes the whole thing any less nasty.

As he's saying the magic words— _revocamus potentiam tuam_ —the witch hurls a final burst of energy. It shoots directly at him, blazing like seven-foot sun. With nowhere to run, Dean shoves his brother aside and prepares for impact, setting his jaw and hunching his shoulders, and It hits him full-on, crashing over him like a wave, knocking him onto his ass. The witch collapses and lies still. 

A voice behind him speaks. "That's a wrap!"

Dean jumps, because it wasn't Sam's voice. Whips his head around so fast he doesn't know what he's seeing at first. He blinks, wondering if the witch conjured a fat little man with a grey mustache out of his body somehow.

Because that's the sort of disturbing shit witches do. And by the way? Fuck witches.

Only now there are two men, peering at him. Peering at everything like they're judging it. Then a third approaches. What are all these men doing, looking at him?

"I don't know, Russ, I think we should cut this scene altogether. I mean, the Winchesters save  _people_ and hunt  _things._ This is saving things and hunting people! Isn't that backwards?"

"Sammy, what's going on," Dean says quietly out of the corner of his mouth, rising slowly and going for his gun, getting his other hand on his brother. Sam flinches.

Dean ignores his prissy brother, backing into him, feeling Sam's comforting hugeness looming up behind him.

"Jen," Sam says softly into his hair. A hand brushes his hip.

Dean's confused. "Gem? What gem? There wasn't a gem in the spell!" he hisses.

" _Jen_ ," Sam says, and it makes about as much sense as all the other gibberish going around.

Then he notices people eating. Eating! Like Dean and his brother didn't just knock a woman flat on her back with mad hoodoo! He doesn't bother lowering his voice this time, nor hiding the fear in it: "Sammy I don't know what she did but we gotta get out of here." He turns into his brother, grabbing the lapel of his coat and pulling him for emphasis, towards the other end of the warehouse. Sam doesn't budge. "Now, Sammy! Move it!"

Sam's narrowing his eyes, like Dean is the one acting strangely. 

"Oh shit," he breathes, realizing, "She whammied you too." He bites his lip, and casts a quick, assessing look around, then grabs his brother more forcefully. "This is above my pay grade. We're going to Bobby's." Holding his brother by the elbow, he begins to haul him out of the warehouse.

Then the witch gets up, and smiles at him, and winks. She actually fucking  _winks_. As he stands there, watches her stunned, she approaches, and trails slim fingers across his stomach. 

He knew the spell wouldn't kill her, but he'd kinda hoped she'd stay put until they blew town. Apparently not.

"Sammy," his fingers tighten warily in his brother's coat, though he knows rationally that she shouldn't be dangerous anymore. Sam wrenches his arm away, muttering something that sounds like 'Gem, quit fooling around.'

Dean's pretty sure he has entered the twilight zone.

And then the ex-witch kisses him, full and sensual, right on the mouth.

He stiffens, then relaxes when he realizes he isn't turning into a frog or sprouting boils. Half stunned, half aroused, half just-plain confused, he lets her do her thing, slip her tongue into his mouth, since it buys him a moment to think. Actually, she's a good kisser. Maybe this is her way of saying thank you? Though it doesn't make sense, since she was pretty heavy with the magic, and seemed kinda gung-ho about killing those dogs... _Thank you for stealing my evil bitch powers?_   Yeah, right. He dismisses the thought, lets his lips go soft and open.

Her hands move over his clothing, and one gets a little too frisky roving down the front of his pants.

"Whoa, okay," he says, breaking the kiss and backing away, hands in front of him like a shield. "I don't usually let women molest me until the second date, especially when they just spent the past week—"

He stops cold, staring. Blinks. Her eyes glow nearly-white in the odd lighting, and he gets a very bad feeling that the spell didn't work after all. Draws his gun and aims at her chest. Suddenly, he doesn't care about puppies or Sam's choose life motto—something fucking weird is going on.

A sharp voice, to his right: "Jensen!" Sam's voice. Big hands dragging him away from the woman. She looks ... sad? But that can't be right.

"What the hell," he mutters, feeling defeated.

He's pulled into a dark corridor—one he didn't notice on the way in. The disorientation doesn't do anything to ease his nerves.

Sam pushes him into the wall by a curling poster. It flashes through his line of vision before he can make out the words. Then he's lost in Sam's eyes, and there's something wrong with them too, though he's not entirely sure what. Panic settles low in his gut. Sam, assessing him.

"Sammy her  _eyes_ I think she still has powers—" he rushes.

"Jen, relax. Those are fucking contacts. Are you ..." the grip his arms loosens, and his brother regards him clinically. "Did you _take_ something?"

Dean groans at the sudden realization: "You're _calling me_ Jen!" He grabs his brother's face and drags him close. "Sammy, talk to me." Suddenly he's blinking back tears. "You know my name is Dean, right?"

Sam's eyes are cold. "Jensen, you need to calm down."

Dean's shot through with a sudden, dark feeling, like he's utterly alone in outer space. And then his brother's hard tone—he's being an asshole for some reason. Now, of all times, when everything's woven with disturbing alterations and the fabric of Dean's world seems to be unraveling—Sam picks  _now_ to be a dick.

His hands clench into fists. "Calm down? Calm _down?_   What the fuck is going on here!"

"Jensen. That's not cute."

"Sammy, you stop calling me that, or I swear I'll—"

"You'll what? Stab me with a rubber knife?" And the guy— _Sam, he's_ Sam _, but he's not acting like himself_ —grabs his wrist, pries the knife from his now-limp hand, tosses it aside. He didn't realize he'd drawn a knife on his brother. Rather than clattering to the floor like it should, the knife hits tile and bounces slightly, then just lies there.

Dean watches it like it might have some answers. Can't look at his brother.

"C'mere, let me talk to you." And Sam grabs him roughly, pulling him back through the warehouse, which turns out to be a half-room surrounded by alien machinery and ...  _the fuck?_

"Sam, why is our car _inside?_ And what the hell is that green shit!"

People stare at him. People, milling about everywhere. Dozens. Where did all these people come from? 

Sam doesn't say anything and drags him out back to a gravel road with more people, and trailers.

And Dean knows they're not in Sheridan, Illinois anymore. 

He's almost paralyzed by the certainty of that realization. Yet his feet keep moving, crunch of gravel. He sees mountains in the distance. It's a different season, too—he notices such things.

Something's deeply wrong.

And he wonders now if his brother is his brother after all. Thinks of those eyes, the subtle differences. The little dark fleck on the outside of Sammy's left iris, missing. The rainbow of hazel more pronounced.

Still, he follows the man. What else can he do?


End file.
